


Object of Affection

by WitchOfTheWestCountry



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Death, Inanimate Object Porn, Inanimate Objects, Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 21:00:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18599326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchOfTheWestCountry/pseuds/WitchOfTheWestCountry
Summary: Something is wrong with Lucy's wife. She can feel it. And she has to go and see her despite the possible dangers.





	Object of Affection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kittenmoon21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenmoon21/gifts).



> Object sexuality or objectophilia is a form of paraphilia focused on particular inanimate objects. Individuals with this preference may have strong feelings of attraction, love, and commitment to certain items or structures of their fixation.

_And I can’t change, even if I tried_ _  
_ _Even if I wanted to_ _  
_ _My love, my love, my love, my love_   
_She keeps me warm, she keeps me warm_

 

It was Their Song, and Lucy never tired of it. Even if she played it over and over on repeat for days on end - which she had done - it never lost its power. Listening to it was like lying in a sunbeam on a lazy afternoon and watching dust motes dance in the golden light. It made her think of Isabelle - the way she’d looked the day Lucy first saw her standing surrounded by the swamp, still and thoughtful and unspeakably elegant.

When Lucy was feeling a little more playful she would listen to Ed Sheeran’s “The Shape of You” - _I'm in love with the shape of you / We push and pull like a magnet do / Although my heart is falling too / I'm in love with your body._

But that was dangerous. Poignant. If she was feeling vulnerable, it could remind her of all the things she and her wife couldn't do because of the distance that kept them apart.

She was attuned to Isabelle’s moods though - so keenly she could be going about her daily business and be pierced by a sudden, sweet melancholy, or a burst of unbidden happiness that would leave her nearly floating, and she'd know that her wife was the source of those feelings. It was their Connection.

 

Isabelle had been sad for a while. The emotion was a constant background noise to Lucy’s life, and it got stronger every day. It had been a murmur at first, a whisper, but now it had reached a pitch that nagged at her constantly like the beep of a carbon monoxide detector. It hurt her to feel her wife's pain and sorrow when there was nothing she could do: Lucy had been saving up for the trip to visit Isabelle for a while, but she had no vacation time due and her boss was being an ass about it.

No matter. _Amor Vincit Omnia._ The universe must have meant for Isabelle and Lucy to be together or it wouldn't have orchestrated their meeting. Lucy was a big believer in Destiny and when the time was right she would throw everything away for her wife and not give it a second thought.

 

The sadness was crippling.

Lucy could barely raise her head from her pillow. Maybe that was why it was called _depression_ : It pressed her down onto her bed under its weight, an invisible blanket made of misery.

It was time. Work be damned. Isabelle needed her and she wasn't going to let her wife suffer alone.

Lucy managed to drag herself out of bed and once the first step had been made it was easier. She showered and dressed, putting on her prettiest clothes, the outfit that Isabelle loved on her: Pastel shades in soft fabrics. A magnolia flower clipped into her hair. Isabelle hated bright colours and loud noises. She was such a gentle soul.

Lucy had never thought of herself as pretty before she'd met Isabelle: She was plump and plain and generally unremarkable, but Isabelle had never complained. Isabelle saw right into her, and loved her for her softness, her empathy. Her humanity. Love wasn't blind. True love saw everything.

 

She took a flight to Louis Armstrong airport and there she rented a car. Even through the sadness she still felt, Lucy was excited to be seeing her wife again as she drove to Dulvey, the anticipation of their reunion making the miles fly by. She sang as she went.

_My love, my love, my love, my love, she keeps me warm, she keeps me warm._

 

_It had been a chance meeting; the kind Lucy had read about in her romance novels growing up. She'd never lost her taste for them, exactly, but real life had soured her to them, its nasty, harsh reality making a mockery of her gentle tales. She sought them out when she was she was older only as a last, guilty refuge from the world, ashamed of her need, scornful of her own fantasies._

_But then she'd taken the trip to Louisiana and things had changed forever…_

 

_How she'd ended up in Dulvey she didn't quite recall. It had been a road diversion, she thought. The reason was unimportant now. But she'd gotten lost - Fate steering her with an unsubtle hand - and her phone had died, and she'd seen a house in the distance, its roof peeking above the trees coyly like a lady peeping over her fan._

_Lucy had seen countless antebellum mansions on her trip, and each one had been beautiful in its way, but the tiny glimpse of this roof had made her heart beat a little faster in her breast. Without really knowing why, she'd parked at the end of the driveway and made her way up on foot, every step taking her closer, unveiling a little more of her destination in a tasteful strip tease: An eave here; a window there. The final bend in the path had opened the view up wide for her, and there she stood. Isabelle. In all her faded glory._

_It had quite simply been love at first sight. Just like in her books._

 

Lucy had been back since; not as many times as she'd like but on enough occasions for their relationship to grow, to thrive.

The need for secrecy had been vital, and for that reason their wedding day had been a simple affair: A poem read at dusk; a simple bouquet laid on Isabelle’s steps.

Their vows had been silent, spoken between two hearts, a binding of two souls in the hush of an encroaching spring night.

They had never had the chance to consummate their vows, but Lucy didn't mind. Such things would happen at their own pace.

 

She reached the property in the throes of the morning heat, and though she would have preferred the cover of darkness Lucy couldn't be apart from her wife for one more moment now she was so close - she could feel Isabelle calling to her from over the treetops, a longing that could not be denied.

Sticking to the ritual so oft repeated, Lucy parked her rental at the bottom of the drive, hooking her purse over her shoulder and locking her car before she set off. Whilst she tried to be quiet there was an urgency to her step, a carelessness in her progress that thrust her forward heedless of caution. Her wife wept, a soundless sobbing that struck Lucy at her very core, and she urged her feet to go faster.

 _“I'm coming, my love!”_ she replied in her heart. _“I am here!”_

She had trodden this path many times, whenever she could get the time and afford the journey, and each time the sight of her wife swinging into view had made her spirit soar, but this time she faltered at the first turn.

The path was overgrown and uncared for, leafy fingers reaching out to bar her way, but as she pushed on the true horror of Isabelle’s condition became clear.

She had always been a Southern Belle. Past her prime, true, but love cared nothing for age, and Lucy had always found her wife’s imperfections endearing: It was proof that, whilst Isabelle was perfect for her, nobody could be _truly_ perfect, and even the most beautiful soul could be affected by time.

But now…

“Oh...darling…”

Isabelle’s unveiling was now less of a strip tease, and more the uncovering of a corpse’s face in a morgue. She bore scars she hadn't had before - boarded up windows, a layer of dark grime, a decay that was apparent in every board, every angle.

The sweet little half-moon window above her porch was dull and glazed, and whereas before it had looked to Lucy like a sultry little wink, it now looked heavy, swollen, an eye half-shut by bruising and despair. Her structure remained strong, her shoulders unbowed by the grief she carried, but her spirit was quenched, her aura one of defeat.

The gates had never been closed to Lucy before, but now they were, and she felt a moment of panic at the notion she should be so close to her darling yet unable to go to her. She flung herself against the wrought metal, the final barrier between her and her wife, and to her relief the gates squeaked open just enough for her to squeeze through.

Lucy was distraught at her wife's state, but still she took a moment to look around her: The lawn was as unkempt as the path had been, straggly, dying grass wherever her gaze fell, and the bushes that surrounded the yard were splayed onto the lawn, hunched over, invading Isabelle’s space.

“Oh, my love!” said Lucy. “What has happened? What have they done to you?”

Or, more accurately, what _hadn't_ they done?

Lucy was aware on some unimportant level that people lived in Isabelle, but she saw them as caretakers and nothing more. Servants whose job was to keep Isabelle in shape, keep her paint bright and her windows clean. They had failed in their one task and, from the look of it, they had abandoned her.

Isabelle couldn't look after herself. It was preposterous to think so. How could they neglect her like this? What sort of monsters were they?

Lucy rarely got angry. She was timid and peaceful, going through life being amiable and amenable, but Isabelle’s condition made her mild blood boil. She clenched her soft hands into unlikely fists; ground her small teeth together.

But she had to douse her temper: Isabelle’s needs were more important and her rage was distressing to her wife.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, opening her hands. “I'm sorry I was away for so long. It's been hell for me, but I can see it's been worse for you. I'm being selfish. Can you forgive me?”

A warm wave swept over Lucy, a sweet balm to her mood. Of course Isabelle forgave her. Isabelle bore no grudges, nursed no grievances. It was what Lucy loved about her.

“I missed you so much, love,” she said, taking a few cautious steps forward. “Would it be all right if I touched you? It's fine if you don't want me to! I understand. I don't want to hurt you...”

Lucy waited, respectful of her wife’s wishes, and after a few moments felt the answer in her soul: Acceptance that melted whatever ire remained in her, soothed her sore heart.

“Oh, darling….”

She closed the gap between her and her wife, reaching out for her. She felt like she was falling through life, and Isabelle was the only handhold in this cruel world that could save her from plummeting to her death.

Her wife must surely be in pain but Lucy felt none of that. She felt only Isabelle’s strength, her courage - the strength that had carried her through the change of centuries and the turmoils of weather and war.

She laid a tentative hand on one of Isabelle’s steps, the worn wood warm beneath her hand. The borrowed heat from the sun infused her wife, and Lucy liked to think that was where she got her energy from, like a flower turning its face to the light.

She could feel Isabelle’s power, muted but there, her life force subdued from her trials but clinging on, and the relief made Lucy bolder: She climbed up one step, touched one of the grand pillars that supported the porch. It was smooth and broad, yet the layer of grime that covered it spoiled its grace, and Lucy once again cursed the people who had left her to rot like this.

“Oh, darling. You poor thing. You've suffered so much! I can't bear to think of it. I wish there was something I could do!”

Stifling a sob, Lucy flung her arms around the pillar, crushing herself against it. She'd never been this forward before, never held her wife with such abandon and complete surrender,  and through the anguish she was still able to feel bliss.

It wasn't her imagination that Isabelle responded favourably to the embrace: She heard a creak from the porch boards nearby, a comfortable noise that sounded to Lucy’s ears like a sigh of pleasure.

She pressed her cheek to the pillar. She wanted to kiss it, but the dirt prohibited that.

“This is wonderful,” she murmured. “You can't imagine how much I've missed you.”

The creak again, barely audible, accompanied by a minute vibration that felt like a vast heartbeat filtered through an entire building.

Feeling braver, Lucy pressed her palms to the pillar, caressing the smoothness, marvelling at her wife’s poise, at her dignity and forbearance.

“Have you missed me too?” she ventured, letting her hands wander. “You can tell me…”

Her own heart was beating faster, an unfamiliar excitement pervading her body, and the thought that suddenly occurred to her made her blush.

Was this Isabelle’s answer? she wondered. Was this Isabelle’s desire, transferred to her from this intimate contact?

“Give me a sign,” she suggested.

Bashful as she was, the idea wouldn't leave her feverish mind, and though her blush deepened, blazing in her cheeks, she hoped the answer would be positive.

A breeze stirred the undergrowth nearby - a stunted attempt at one but one that nevertheless rustled the leaves shyly against the wood of the Isabelle’s walls.

Lucy bit her lip.

“Are you sure?” she whispered.

There was no audible answer this time, but Lucy could feel Isabelle’s acquiescence. It was something she would never be able to explain in words, but she had never been more certain of anything in her life. It was pure feeling, something that was apparent in every tendril of kudzu that enveloped the elegant lines of her structure, something she transmitted into her from the pillar in an emotional form of osmosis. It filled Lucy, spreading through her limbs, spilling out through her mouth in a low moan.

“Oh, my love…” she said. “I've waited so long. All my life…”

Lucy had never been with a man. She had never been with a woman either. She'd thought for a while that maybe she was a lesbian, given her distaste for men, but she’d come to realise that in truth she didn't like people at all, and that the thought of engaging in something so sordid and messy and invasive as sex repulsed her.

And until this moment, she'd never been swayed in her conviction.

But Isabelle was different.

Lucy unwrapped her arms, giving the pillar an affectionate pat. She felt flirtatious, now, pretty and coquettish and fully alive.

“I'm glad we waited,” she told her wife. “It makes this moment so much more special.”

There was so much of Isabelle to love that Lucy didn't know where to start, but she was filled with urgency now, an unfamiliar tingle in her loins that made her fidgety and impatient. She didn't want to wander the grounds for the perfect location: She wanted to consummate their love here and now, and Isabelle’s pillars were so round and perfect and beautiful….

Lucy glanced up the steps. There was a pillar connected to the porch floor, under the cover of Isabelle’s sadly dilapidated roof, and Lucy climbed the steps, a flirtatious little spring in her step. Despite the brightness of the sun overhead this place was shaded and secretive, surrounded by overgrown shrubbery, a perfect little haven to lose themselves in.

Lucy laid her hand on the topmost pillar - it wasn't as weathered as he others, and its surface was smoother.

She trailed her fingers down it, being as delicate as she could, and it seemed she felt a tremor underfoot, a shiver of suppressed delight.

“Do you like that, sweetheart?” she asked. “Does that feel good?”

Lucy pressed her cheek to Isabelle. This part of her was cooler than the one before, but still transmitted a subtle heat that likely came from within.

“You feel so good, darling,” she told her. “So...alive….”

Lucy may have been a romantic but she was practical too, and ever mindful of such an occasion as this, she had come prepared.

With shaking hands she let her purse slip from her shoulder, digging inside for the hand sanitiser and package of Kleenex she had packed.

“We have to take precautions,” she giggled, her voice sounding husky and strange to her own ears. “We don't want little Southern mansions running about all over the place!”

It seemed she heard an answering giggle, floating through the tension building between her, and she was glad her wife was cheered by her silly humour.

Squatting by the base of the pillar she squirted a healthy dose of the gel onto it, lovingly smearing it over the surface of her wife’s appendage. It squelched a little, a wet sound that would have been abhorrent from another human but was somehow pure and right with Isabelle.

“Gotta rub it in,” she breathed. “Get it right in deep. Just. Like. That.”

Lucy cast her purse aside. She was ready. Isabelle was ready.

Lucy unbuttoned her pink sweater, lifting the lavender tank beneath it. She'd instinctively worn no bra for the occasion, and her breasts felt heavy and ripe and sensitive.

She thumbed her nipples - they were already hard with anticipation, and she bit her lip as she leaned forward and touched the tip of one to the pillar.

“Ohhhhh….” she said. “That feels so good honey…”

Twisting at the waist she rubbed her breast against Isabelle with tiny movements, her malleable human flesh responding to the rigidity of her wife's form. It sent a thrill through her that shot from her breast straight to her pussy, as if there were a nerve that connected them, a railroad of lust in her body.

Gritting her teeth she shifted position, lifting her other breast in her hand to tease the forsaken nipple like she had the first. It was unbearable, extravagant yet frustrating, and whilst she loved the sensations she was hungry for more.

She tucked the hem of her top into the neckline, tugging it through and pulling it tight, the fabric twisted into a knot under her chin. She wanted to be exposed and open but she was also going to need her hands.

Lucy fumbled beneath her skirt, snagging the waistband of her panties with her thumbs and hauling them down. They got stuck at her knees in her haste, the tangle of sensible cotton forming an awkward bunch, and she stumbled when they reached her ankles, her momentum pitching her back onto her ass.

She grunted, putting out her hands to absorb the impact, and despite the pain of the jolt sweet Isabelle implanted no splinters into her palms.

Lucy sat for a moment, regaining her composure, her panties trapped by the heels of her shoes, feeling stupid and clumsy and ugly, and there were tears in her eyes almost immediately.

 _“Shit!”_ she said, and it was the first swear word that had ever left her mouth in her time on this earth.

 _“Shit…”_ she said again, choking on the word, blinded by self hate.

She'd ruined it. Ruined the moment. Ruined everything. She was just a fat woman splayed on a porch and crying with her tits out.

She heaved herself forward, and for some reason it seemed more important at that instance to cover her face than her nudity. She buried her face in her hands, sobbing into her twined fingers. She could smell the dust and grit of the porch on her hands.

“I'm sorry!” she snorted, shoulders heaving. “I'm sorry I'm human! I'm _useless….”_

Lucy felt a shift, a thrum in the boards beneath her. A breeze stroked her hair, touched the soft peaks of her breasts, lifted the hem of her skirt in a tiny, teasing gesture.

 _I want you_ , it said, in a voice only Lucy could hear. _Don't stop…_

Snivelling, Lucy sat up. She tried a smile, and though it felt false on her tear drenched face it gave her strength. She used her sleeve to wipe the water from her cheeks.

“Really?” she said. “You aren't trying to...mollify me?”

A thought appeared in her head, one that was huge yet pillowed by the ether:

_“Love doesn't care when you stumble and fall. Love is without bounds and love conquers all.”_

Love conquers all. Lucy’s exact thoughts spoken back to her, and it was proof that was she was doing was meant to be. That she must do it.

Swallowing her sniffles, Lucy reached forward and plucked her troublesome panties away, tossing them onto the porch.

The heat was back, the heat that consumed and propelled her, and she shuffled forward, using her heels, bending her knees and opening herself.

Her flesh touched the pillar, opening her secret passage, flinging her doors wide. She gasped at the contact - she had never touched herself there except to wash and she could never have imagined how _wanton_ it would make her feel.

“...oh…”

Such a small syllable but all she could manage.

She tilted her head back, lifted her hips into the friction. It was delicious and dirty and she craved more.

She pressed herself to the pillar harder, a shoe falling off unheeded and tumbling down the steps. She kicked the other off in an agony of impatience, spreading herself wider.

“Oh……”

She braced one heel against the tread of a step, the other into the porch. She let herself fall back onto her hands, deliberately this time, propping her up, baring her breasts to the underside of the porch in a desperate sacrifice.

“Tell me you want it!” she said, her voice shaking as much as her elbows beneath the strain. “Tell me you love me!”

Her hips fell, then rose, then fell again. She was utterly abandoned, completely lost.

Lucy had meant for this to be a religious moment but now that it was here it was a primal thing. A need that could not be quantified. She moved her ass in a tight circle, experimenting, tilting her pelvis, and the sensitive little button she’d barely given a thought to for most of her life bumped against Isabelle.

“Oh!”

That was it; that was the spot.

Moaning, Lucy concentrated on that area, delighted by her discovery. Something was happening, something wonderful and warm and electric, and Lucy didn't know if this was what everyone felt or if it was a special gift given to her by her wife. It was coiling in her belly, a building ecstasy ready to unwind in a burst.

She arched her back, hair hanging onto the boards, the magnolia flower she'd carefully clipped in at the start of her journey falling from it and tumbling down unheeded.

Her elbows gave out as the sensation reached a climax, dropping her onto her back, and she cried out in surprise as much as pleasure. Her pussy was clenching, the neat, virginal little channel pulsing against the pillar, and Lucy thought that perhaps it was sucking the essence of Isabelle into her, conjoining them forever.

Panting and trembling, Lucy rode out her orgasm in a sweaty heap, chest heaving and heart pounding. For a split second during their congress Lucy had felt as though she _was_ Isabelle - huge and strong and old, looking out over her swampy domain with her many tireless eyes.

The feeling was fading now, the dwindling pleasure leaving a ghost of itself behind, and she felt lazy and content lying there.

“That was….amazing,” Lucy told her wife. “I never felt anything like it.”

“Girl, you need to get out more,” drawled an alien voice from nearby, and Lucy shrieked.

She sat up as though she'd been shocked, crossing her arms over her breasts, and to her horror there was a grinning man standing there, looking like he'd been born from the scruffy undergrowth he stood by.

“Who are you?” demanded Lucy, her voice high and querulous.

The man slotted a cigarette into his leer, producing a tarnished Zippo from the pocket of his pants and snapping it open.

“Was about to ask you the same question,” he said, flicking the wheel with his thumb.

A greasy lick of flame appeared and he touched it to the end of his cigarette without taking his eyes off her.

They were pale eyes, cold and spiteful, and she felt like they could see right through her folded arms.

As if reading her mind, he gestured towards her as he snicked the lighter closed.

“Y’all don't haveta cover up on my account, you know. I don't mind.”

Close to tears, Lucy hunched over, not knowing which part of her to cover first. Her pussy was blessedly hidden by Isabelle’s stout pillar, although a little puff of hair was visible, so she concentrated on unravelling her top first, untucking it clumsily and pulling it down.

The man clicked his tongue in disappointment, and from the corner of her eye as she buttoned her sweater Lucy saw him lean back, settling his ass against one of the porch rails with filthy familiarity.

Lucy shuddered, pulling the hem of her skirt over her thighs.

The man was horrible: Dirty and ugly and bony, and his proximity to Isabelle was tainting the very air.

Clambering to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster, Lucy snatched up her discarded panties and bunched them in her hand. She still felt very vulnerable without them, but she couldn't bear to put them back on with him watching.

And watching he was, staring at her with those icy blue eyes in a way that made her feel as though she were naked.

“Do you mind? This was meant to be a very private moment!”

“Yeah, it looked that way,” said the man, utterly without shame.

She felt her fists clench.

“You _monster_ …”

“Aw, c’mon now. Don't be like that. Let ya finish, didn't I?”

“Have you been watching the whole time?” she demanded, cheeks growing hot.

“From the moment you walked up the driveway. Figured you were up to something’ weird, and boy, was I right!”

He cackled, an ugly sound that made her wince. A thought was occurring to her, one that made her cringe: The creaks she'd heard and the vibrations she'd felt - the ones she'd taken to be Isabelle’s responses...had that been _him_?

It was unbearable.

“Pervert,” she snapped.

“Ha! _I_ ain't the one fucking my house,” he shot back, taking a drag of his cigarette.

Her vision was blurring and she realised with horror that she was about to cry in front of this awful man.

“It wasn't. .. _fucking_.”

She said the word with difficulty, and it felt sharp and nasty in her mouth, leaving a bad taste like copper on her tongue.

“We were making love.”

She didn't know why the distinction was so important to make to him, but if she wasn't going to come out of this with any kind of dignity she was at least going to speak her mind.

“We?” he looked around, craning his neck. “Don't see anybody else. Unless…”

He looked up at Isabelle.

“You mean _we_ as in you and my house?”

He looked delighted suddenly, slapping his leg with glee.

“Goddammit, you do, dontcha? Whoo-wee, I read about folks like you! Never thought I'd ever meet one! This is turning out to be a _grand_ day.”

“Folks like me? What do you mean?”

“It's called objectophilia. Real freaky shit. Got people falling in love with inanimate objects. In your case, my house.”

She didn't like him referring to Isabelle as his, but she put that aside for now.

“You mean...there are others like me?”

Despite her predicament, the news gave her a curious feeling of hope.

“Aw yeah. Not a whole bunch, but they exist. All women I think. One woman, she's got a thing going on with the Eiffel Tower, so you definitely ain't alone.”

He pitched the butt of his cigarette onto the porch, grinding it into the boards with the heel of one dirty sneaker, and she felt a dull sort of anger begin to form in her chest, mixing in improbably with the dawning hope and the well-entrenched humiliation.

He saw her face, and grinned. It wasn't a pleasant expression.

“Whoops. Done burned your boyfriend. Sorry about that.”

“My wife,” she corrected. “Isabelle is my wife.”

“Well, I beg your fucking pardon,” he said. “Isabelle, huh? Did you give her that name, or uh -”

He sniggered.

“- did she tell you?”

“She told my _heart_ ,” said Lucy with as much gravitas as she could summon.

The man cracked up laughing, doubled over with his hands on his bony knees.

“Jesus, I've heard everything now! You're the fuckin’... _house_ whisperer!”

Her face was blazing with heat now but she took the opportunity of his distraction to struggle back into her tangled panties.

Everything was ruined. What had been a tender, loving moment had been sullied by the presence of this _creature_ , cheapening it, making it seem dirty.

“I wouldn't expect you to understand,” she said once she was decent. “It's all _real_ . My feelings for her. Her feelings for me. It's a _spiritual_ connection. It's special.”

“I wouldn't know nothing about that. Hey, if it makes you feel any better though, once when I was like 14 I fucked a greased up knothole in the barn wall to see what it was like.”

He had her attention now.

“Really? Did you form a bond?” she asked, excited.

“Got my dick stuck if that's what you mean. Near took all the damn skin off tryna pull it out. Never did _that_ again.”

Lucy turned away from him, disgusted. He was vile and coarse and it made her heart ache to think of him inhabiting her beloved. Isabelle deserved so much better.

“Aww. Look, I'm sorry, but you gotta see it from my point of view. I come out here for a smoke and I see some strange woman getting down and dirty with my porch...you gotta admit, it's a lot to take in.”

She didn't turn back but she heard the scrape of his shoes as he stood, Isabelle’s boards creaking as he took a step forward.

“It's a little weird, but fuck - so am I! I like weird. And I like you. You're different. Tell you what - how would you like to come on in and take a look around, huh? Betcha never seen inside your wife…”

His wheedling tone didn't sound right to her - false and edged by a cruel humour she was only too adept at detecting. But what he was offering made her stomach cartwheel madly. Go inside Isabelle...The thought made her lightheaded.

She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to control the rising excitement.

“C...could I really?”

“Sure!” said the man. “My folks are, uh, indisposed right now, and my sisters ain't gonna bother us, so you can have a real good nosey around. Have a poke about in all her private little places, huh?”

She could hear his laughter right under the ersatz warmth, poorly concealed, but she didn't care what someone like him thought of her. Not if it meant being inside Isabelle.

“Ok. I accept your invitation,” she said, retrieving her shoes and stepping into them.

The man stooped and picked up her hair clip, presenting it to her with exaggerated formality. She accidentally touched his fingers taking it from him, and as soon as the clip was back in her hair she got out her hand sanitiser and doused her hands in it liberally, rubbing it in as his eyes grinned at her.

“My name's Lucas, by the way,” he said. “You got a name?”

“Lucy,” she said, wondering why she was telling him.

“Well, what a coincidence,” he said. “Lucas and Lucy. Pleased to meet you, Lucy.”

Her name sounded like a dirty word coming from his mouth, and she could tell he knew she hated it, but she was in no position to say anything.

“Now, if you'd care to step this way, Lucy, we can begin our tour.”

He held out one arm, sweeping it towards the front door, and she took a step towards it quickly before he decided to take her arm or something.

She was going inside. That was all that mattered. That was what she had to hold on to.

 

Lucy had a bad moment when the front door wouldn't open: It was stuck, and Lucas grunted as he wrestled with the door knob.

“Don't use the front door all that much,” he explained in a strained voice, setting his shoulder against it and pushing.

The wood creaked and groaned, and it was almost as though Isabelle was deliberately barring their way, denying them entry. Almost as though she didn't want Lucy to go inside….

Lucas jiggled the knob, lifting and shoving at the same time, and with a squeal of pain, the door burst open.

“There we go!” said Lucas cheerfully, brushing dust from his shoulder - a pointless gesture since his clothes were filthy.

“Bust her wide open. Go on in, Lucy….”

There was a voice in her head, a tiny, quiet one that she would have attributed to Isabelle if it weren't so distant. It told her she was making a huge mistake.

She ignored it.

 

Isabelle didn't smell good.

Isabelle smelled very bad.

Lucy had been expecting must and dust; what she hadn't expected was the rancid odour of old cooking and rot, and the wet, mushroomy smell of mold.

It hung thick in the air, and Lucy recoiled, pulling her sleeve over her hand and bringing it to cover her nose and mouth.

“Yeah, she sure does stink,” said Lucas. “You get used to it though. Take deep breaths.”

He scraped the door shut behind them, the wedge of light from outside growing gradually narrower until it disappeared with a painful thud.

It seemed very dark in the hallway, but Lucy was far too excited to worry about the smell and gloom. She was inside her wife! For the first time ever.

Isabelle’s interior was in the same state of neglect as her exterior, and Lucy bit back the bitter comment she would have liked to make. Lucas and his family hadn't kept their part of the contract to care for Isabelle and she was angry, but she didn't want to upset her unlikely tour guide despite her dislike. She wanted to explore.

“Where d’ya wanna start?” asked Lucas. “I reckon downstairs first. I'll show you all her best features….”

His voice sounded lascivious and inappropriate but Lucy pushed her doubts aside. Her feet were in motion, carrying her forward with an eagerness she didn't bother to disguise.

One component of Isabelle’s overall reek got stronger as she moved down the hall, but before she could go any further Lucas stopped her.

“Woah, woah! You don't wanna see the kitchen, trust me. Let's go this way. The main hall. You won't be disappointed….”

 

Lucy wasn't disappointed. There was a lot of clutter around and dust and dirt overlay everything, but Isabelle’s staircases were glorious.

Lucy stood for a moment, admiring her wife's curves.

“She sure is something, ain't she?” said Lucas. “Bagged yourself a grand wife. Can you imagine how she'd look all gussied up? Like - what's her name? - Scarlett O’Hara. Belle of the ball.”

Lucy kept her mouth shut. Scarlett O’hara was a vain, vapid slut as far as she was concerned.

“Don't be shy - go on up! She's plenty roomy up top. Oh yeah. Well endowed.”

Lucy lowered her sleeve from her face, forsaking the perfumed refuge, and to her relief the the smell had receded enough for her to control the gag reflex she'd felt upon first entering. Although Lucas’s comments were making her feel queasy.

There was something else, too. Something not quite right nagging at the back of her mind, that teeny voice poking and prodding. Something about this whole setup was odd and out of place.

Well, never mind. Isabelle was entitled to her air of mystery.

 

Lucy wasn't shy about touching now - not after their joyful union outside - but she was still respectful. She placed her hands carefully, with the right amount of awe and worship. Isabelle seemed….muffled from the inside, and whilst Lucy had expected her wife’s voice to be clearer it made sense if she thought about it. Isabelle’s heartbeat overpowered everything and even if she couldn't hear her wife’s thoughts she could feel her all around, strong but still unutterably sad.

“She's grieving,” said Lucy, putting her palm against a wall.

She hadn't meant to overshare to Lucas but he was pretending to understand and she'd longed to have someone to confide in for the longest time.

“Oh yeah? Well, you'd know, I guess.”

“She's seen a lot,” said Lucy. “Many bad things. It hurts her to be a part of it but she has no choice.”

Lucas didn't answer. She didn't bother to look at his expression - she could feel his scepticism coming off him in waves.

There was door at the top of the stairs at the other end of the walkway, and as she turned to look at it Lucas did a hasty sidestep to block her view.

“That there’s my, uh, grandma’s room. You can't go there.”

Lucy didn't want to go there: The door was strange and troubling, something crooked and primitive-looking nailed to it. A snake? Was it some kind of hex sign?

“This way is much more interesting,” said Lucas, herding her toward the door nearest her. “We got a verandah, and a recreation room, and a bathroom. Can get up into the attic, even. How would you like that? You wanna go into the attic? It's great up there. Right up in the rafters….”

Lucy hesitated. On the surface Lucas seemed friendly enough still, but she didn't like the undertone of his voice.

“I...I'd like to go on the verandah,” she said.

She'd seen Isabelle’s verandah from the outside.  There was a lattice screen but it was largely open and she was feeling claustrophobic now. Skittish and nervous.

“The verandah? Huh. Ok. That works I guess. Go on through…”

 

There was a table in the hall with football paraphernalia on it - a helmet and, bizarrely, a framed photo of a ball. It looked like a shrine. Lucy didn't like it - it was too aggressively masculine to be displayed in Isabelle’s feminine halls.

And her halls _were_ feminine, in spite of their plain decor. There should be flowered wallpaper, really, and garlands and vases. Not the muddy landscapes these people had chosen to hang.

“Turn right here,” said Lucas.

Lucy didn't need telling. She could feel the sluggish waft of outside air drifting through and wondered how the family coped in the rainy season. No wonder poor Isabelle had mildew everywhere.

The view to the outside was unimpressive - a dreary old trailer with the windows curtained; dead grass and patches of mud. But she felt better here. She could breathe more easily.

“What happened here?” she asked, peering through the trellis. “Isabelle has been a little...under the weather for as long as I've known her but she's gone downhill a _lot_.”

“Funny you should mention the weather,” said Lucas. “The weather was the main reason she's like she is now. Was a storm few years back and it brought a plague with it. A plague in human form. See, she got damaged, but the real damage was on that ship that ran aground in the swamp. Ain't never been the same since. I'm being honest, though, was prolly the best thing ever happened to me. Blessing in disguise.”

“A _plague_? What are you talking about?”

She wanted to turn around but she was suddenly too scared. His words were creeping around her like a net, wrapping round tightly.

“Oh, you know. Bioweapon,” he said conversationally. “The mold. Infected all of us. My folks are plum crazy now.”

“What about you?”

Her voice came from a great distance, struggling through her dry throat and a mouth that felt full of cotton.

“Oh, I've always been crazy,” he confided. “This just put an edge on it. But you'd know all about crazy, wouldn't you Lucy?”

“I'm not crazy,” she said, but her denial was as weak as her limbs felt.

“Oh, you are, honey. One of the craziest people I ever met. Crazier than a shithouse rat and that's the truth. You know this is just a house, right? Just wood and bricks. It ain't got no fucking consciousness. It ain't _alive_.”

“Shut up,” said Lucy.

He was close now, so close behind her she could smell the stench of his cigarette breath as it stirred her hair.

“Face it: You're about as crazy as me. Only difference is, you're the No Grip on Reality kind of crazy while I'm the homicidal kind….”

“Shut! Up!”

Lucy drove her elbow back into where she judged his guts should be. She was scared and pissed and frantic enough to put a fair amount of force behind it, but she was also soft and far too unused to violence.

Her elbow sank into the ragged collection of skin and bone behind her with barely a thud, and Lucas cackled as he back stepped to avoid the impact.

“Whoa, here she goes! That's what I'm talking about! Crazy Lucy done snapped!”

She spun round, swinging her arm to slap his stupid, grinning face, but he snatched her wrist out of the air as casually as catching a beer someone had tossed to him.

“Simmer down, girl! What's wifey gonna think of your behaviour? Oh yeah, I forgot - she ain't gonna think anything! She's a fucking _house_ ! A _thing_ ! An _object_!”

Still holding her wrist he kicked out at the wall behind him, the impact making her wince.

“It got no feelings. No thoughts. No emotions.”

He gave it another kick, this one harder, laughing at her distress.

“Boy oh boy - you got it bad. I wasn't lying earlier, by the way, when I said I liked you. I do! I always loved me a weirdo. And if I had my way I'd keep y’all, but I gotta job to do and I'm sorry to say it all ends here…”

He reached into his hoodie with his free hand, and Lucy froze when she saw the syringe he held. He popped the cap off with his thumb.

“Don't be scared, hun. It ain't gonna hurt much. What comes after though...well, I can't make any promises.”

Lucy closed her eyes. As much as she wanted to pretend this was all just a horrible dream she had more of a grip on reality than he'd assumed. She'd wondered more than once what would happen if she ever encountered the people who inhabited Isabelle and whilst none of her imaginings had ever ended like this she'd prepared for the worst. She knew what her last words would be, her final statement of her life.

“I love you, Isabelle,” she said, and hurled herself backwards.

 

Lucy had taken note of the loose panel of trellis as Lucas had been tormenting her with his harsh truths, and it gave way exactly as she'd hoped, flapping open like a trapdoor.

He hadn't expected her rebellion - _more fool him! Who was the crazy one now?_ \- and her wrist slipped from his grasp with stupid ease.

Bright light exploded into her face, blinding her, and her back hit the guardrail so hard she heard it crack. She felt a burst of pain that punched all the air from her and then her momentum was carrying her, tipping her over, sending her straight into the arms of her fate.

 

A voice drifted through the fog, mushy and vague yet still irritating.

_“Well look at that. You're alive.”_

She ignored it; tried to sink back into the comfort of unconsciousness. She'd dreamed that she was dead and it was the happiest dream she'd ever had.

_“I'd cuss you out but you saved me a lot of trouble. C’mon Lucy, rise and shine. I'm gonna need you to walk.”_

She twisted her head away from the voice. It hurt, but she felt remarkably pain free for all that had happened. It was very nearly worrying. But not worrying enough to rouse her.

_“Lucy, if you don't wake up Imma rub my dick all over your face!”_

That worked. She cracked her eyes open with difficulty. Lucas’s shadow blocked out much of the glare of the sun but the light still hurt, stabbing the backs of her eyeballs.

“Why aren't I dead?” she croaked.

“Ask myself the same question every day,” said Lucas. “Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, though. Up you get.”

She tried; she honestly did. Her arms felt like rubber and her head felt too heavy for her neck but her legs….her legs felt like nothing at all.

“I can't move my legs,” she said.

She was surprised at how calm, how matter of fact she sounded. Like she was offering an opinion that it might rain later.

“What? You trolling me?”

Lucas moved his arm, and she realised with rising panic that he was touching her shin.

“Can you feel that?”

She shook her head. It felt like it might come off and float away.

He looked sideways at her. Suspicious. Slid his hand up her thigh under her skirt.

“How about that?”

“No! Stop that!”

Her legs lay still. Dead pieces of meat and bone.

“Huh. Okay. Looks like you broke your back in the fall, Lucy. Look on the bright side though: Least it weren't your neck.”

He stood, sighing. Put his hands on his nonexistent hips.

“Looks like I'm gonna have to carry you. Fuck sake. Oh well. You're gonna have to excuse my getting personal….”

She tried to push him away but she had no strength. He grunted as he lifted her, and though she'd thought he'd never manage he heaved her up off the ground.

On some level she knew she shouldn't be moved, that even more damage would be done by being manhandled, but really, what did it matter now? He was going to kill her. If she was going to be paralysed for the rest of her life at least it wasn't likely to be that long.

 

Lucy passed out somewhere en route. The trauma overwhelmed her and she was dunked into blessed relief for a time. When she came back she was in a new place, one that was cramped and dark and smelled like graveyard flowers decaying in a heap.

Lucas stood over her, staring down with an almost scientific interest.

“Don't look at me,” she slurred.

“Reckon you can't do much about it,” he said. “But don't worry. Much as I'd love to stay and play with you, I got other fish to fry. Got another visitor on the way and things could get messy.”

He turned away, presenting her with his narrow back, and started to walk off, footsteps sounding hollow and dull.

“All goes well I might see you again. If it don't - guess this is goodbye. Adiós, muchacha.”

A door shut and she was finally alone.

 

She drifted.

Her head hurt more than the knowledge that her legs were useless and she yearned to escape.

Dreams tangled together in her troubled mind, twined images of a soggy blackness forming into shapes and a spooky little girl standing over her.

 _“I can heal you,”_ said the girl, her voice echoing. _“I can make you walk again.”_

“Go away,” said Lucy.

 _“I can give you Isabelle. I can give you happiness. I can give you eternal life. All this I will give you, if you will bow down and accept my gift.”_ _  
_ “Away from me, Satan!” said Lucy. “For it is written: ‘And I can’t change, even if I tried, Even if I wanted to. My love, my love, my love, my love, She keeps me warm, she keeps me warm.’”

 _“You're making a big mistake,”_ said the girl, her face pinched with anger.

“Amor vincit omnia, bitch,” said Lucy, waving two fingers in a shaky peace sign. “Now fuck off.”

 

The girl was gone, if she had ever been there.

Where she had been stood a woman, looking out of place in a ballgown with wide, hooped skirts and a tiny waist. A light shone from behind her, and Lucy couldn't see the woman’s face, but she didn't need to. She could feel her, somewhere deep down in her hungry soul.

“Isabelle?”

 _“You did it, cher. Passed the test. Resisted temptation. It was all part of your journey._ Our _journey.”_

Isabelle’s voice was musical and charming and Lucy was enchanted by it.

“What journey?”

_“The journey to find me. We can be together now. Always. Dance with me, cher.”_

A slender brown arm extended, a delicate hand at the end of it.

“I can't,” said Lucy sadly.

_“Yes you can! Have a little faith, sugar. It brought you this far. It's nearly over, now. All of it. Listen…”_

Lucy listened. There were distant gunshots and yelling, and a huge, monstrous roar ripping through the air.

“What _is_ that?” asked Lucy.

 _“It's freedom,”_ said Isabelle. _“Take my hand, my love. Dance with me.”_

“But I can't walk!” blurted Lucy.

 _“You can do better,”_ said Isabelle. _“You can fly!”_

Lucy sat up. The pain in her head had faded without her even noticing and she felt light now, the heaviness gone from her limbs.

She took the offered hand and it was solid. It was warm. The second their fingers touched she felt energy surge through her, and she got to her feet without another second’s hesitation.

“Is this real?” asked Lucy, dazed.

_“Honey, this is the only thing that has ever been real. All the rest was the dream…”_

Overcome, Lucy stepped forward into her wife’s embrace. Isabelle was slender and dainty but the strength that came from her was huge and ageless. She put her head on the smooth shoulder that peeked from the top of the gown, inhaled the scent of her.

They were rising, floating together, and when Lucy looked down they were above Isabelle’s old form: The roof was splintered and shattered and something horrifying sprouted from it, twisted and grotesque, whilst helicopters buzzed around like mosquitos, getting smaller and smaller until they were gone.


End file.
